Page 22 of Vega

I ignored that last part. “How close did the cameras spot her at the lake?”

“Close enough.”

“What time?”

He gave me a look that said he wasn’t interested in being questioned.

The explanation was weak. City cameras could place a person near a location. They couldn’t prove what she had witnessed, and Roman was too experienced to confuse the two.

Before I could press him, he slid a folder across the table.

I opened it.

The first page listed her full name, age, home address, telephone number, and employer. Beneath that was a weekly schedule of which train she normally took to work, when she stopped for coffee, what time she left the office, and which grocery store she visited on Sundays.

“How long have you been watching her?” I asked, realizing he’d had this woman under surveillance.

“Long enough to make it very easy to find her.”

I turned to the next page, and her photograph stopped me. Sonnet sat outside a café with an open book in her hands. She wore a white button-down shirt that looked oversized on her, layered gold necklaces, and black-framed prescription glasses. Long, dark hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves. Her face was beautiful with full lips, smooth brown skin and calm eyes. She looked soft, but not weak. She looked like she spent Friday nights reading and correcting people’s grammar in her head.

The glasses should’ve made her look serious. Instead, they made me imagine standing close enough to fog the lenses with my breath while she tried to decide whether she was scared or curious. The thought came fast and stayed longer than it should have.

There was an innocence in her face that reached something possessive inside me. The part of me that enjoyed control wanted to see how long she could maintain that composed expression with me crowding her space. I wanted to hear whether her voice stayed steady when she was near me. I wanted to know what those eyes looked like when they had no choice but to focus on me.

I closed the folder before Roman could catch me staring.

“She lives alone?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Family?”

“None. She was raised in the system”

Something about the answer bothered me, though I didn’t show it.

“Friends?”

“One close friend. A fairy named Dior.”

Roman knew her home, routine, workplace, transportation habits, and who she trusted. Either Sonnet was more involved in Donovan’s death than she appeared, or Roman had resources reaching much farther than city cameras.

Both possibilities made the job more interesting.

“How soon do you want her?” I asked.

“Asap.”

“That’s rushed.”

“My son is dead. I’m not interested in patience.”

I picked up the folder. “My price doubles when a client gives me incomplete information.”

Roman’s mouth stretched into a thin line. “You have what you need.”

“I’ll decide that.”